


Liberty In Death

by Autor_Moriarty



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 18:43:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9398033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Autor_Moriarty/pseuds/Autor_Moriarty
Summary: During a late night walk through a cemetery, Sherlock runs into Jim, who teases him with a game that he can't quite solve. Jim pushes Sherlock to face truths he's chosen to ignore and they end up going home together. There, Sherlock works out the solution to the true final problem.





	

Sherlock loved walking through the cemetery late at night. No cameras for Mycroft to spy on him, no curious strangers, and the groundskeeper was a fan so he didn’t have to worry about having the police interrupt his thoughts.

There was a sense of serenity here that he rarely found elsewhere. The high of solving a case or taking a hit only lasted so long, but there was something about being surrounded by the dead that soothed him, made him introspective. The feeling sometimes came to him in the morgue as well, but under the harsh lights, his nose clogged with the stiff smell of formaldehyde, it never stayed.

To think that all these people had names and stories and meaning, that their brains had functioned and their hearts had beat until one day they up and stopped, and now they were laying forgotten in the cold ground with no one to remember them… It was humbling, even for Sherlock. With all his accomplishments and pride and fame, it was good to remind himself that it was fleeting.

One day, his mind would grow old and slow and he’d be unable to go on cases, and to spare himself the humiliation, he’d probably end up killing himself. A hundred years from now, no one would know his name, and they’d walk on his grave on their way to someone they were more attached to, as the cycle had gone for all of human existence.

Sherlock shivered and pulled his scarf higher, letting it wrap around his lips so he could hold in the heat of his breath. He was getting pointlessly sentimental. They were just animals after all. He was no better.

His attention was drawn by a sound up ahead. The pathway was lit by lampposts but they were spaced widely and there were large spots of total darkness where anything could be hiding. For a moment Sherlock indulged in the fantasy of a supernatural threat for the thrill, but he brought himself back to reality and cleared his throat, calling out loudly.

“Who’s there? Trespassing is illegal you know.”

“It’s hardly trespassing for me.”

The voice that echoed back was familiar, cold and dangerous like the muzzle of a gun pressed to Sherlock’s temple, and against all logic it made him smile, wanting to get closer. He continued forward into the light of the lamppost, making a beckoning gesture with a leather gloved hand.

“I should have expected you’d show up.”

A shadowy figure stepped to the edge of the pool of light, his cruel grin glinting, “Show up? I should be saying that to you. You’re the one that leaves.”

Sherlock ignored the comments, it was the rambling of a madman, “What are you doing here? Waiting for me?”

“How arrogant. But I suppose that’s what I like about you... Isn’t it?” Jim challenged, tilting his head and moving closer. He looked exactly the same as Sherlock remembered, the black hair, the smirk, those sinful eyes.

“You tell me, you’re the one that would know.” Sherlock said coldly. He was remembering how much he hated the vague answers.

“Am I now? If that’s what you think.” Jim chuckled, looking Sherlock over with a knowing, pitying smile, “Oh dear. You’re all turned around. Someone should straighten you out.”

“I’m fine, thanks.” Sherlock clicked the ‘k’ for emphasis.

“You’re right, silly me. Neither of us need any _straightening out_.” Jim sauntered up to Sherlock, crowding into his space. Sherlock held his ground, trying to dominate Jim with his height and icy eyes.

“I asked you what you were doing here.” Sherlock’s voice was low and threatening, but Jim’s smile didn’t waver. He was so smug and overconfident, it was infuriating.

“I like to wander around the gravestones, listening to The Smiths and looking fascinating. Do you think I’m succeeding?” Jim didn’t step back to move away, instead he basically pushed past him and continued forward, casting a sultry glance over his shoulder.

Sherlock gritted his teeth, but obediently turned and followed Jim back the way he’d come, “Is pathological lying a facet of your diagnosis or something you dabble in for fun?”

“It’s not my fault you’re so confused. I’m not going to start telling the truth until you do.” Jim pursed his lips in slight annoyance.

“I haven’t lied about anything.” Sherlock gave a humorless laugh.

“Denial is a lie.”

“Then what am I denying?”

“It’s not my job to spoon-feed it to you, Holmes. You have to think it up yourself or it’s not real progress. Think. What are you denying?”

Jim led the way along the walkway with Sherlock trailing behind. For a few minutes they walked in silence, then Jim turned and began to pick his way through the maze of headstones, careless about where he stepped. Sherlock chose his path more carefully, finding something unsettling about disrespecting the dead.

As Sherlock’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, recognition dawned on him.

Jim walked over to the headstone and perched on the corner of it, striking a thoughtful pose, “Has my practice paid off?”

“Is this what you’re upset about? Me faking my death?”

Jim moved to the center of the headstone to strike another pose, spreading his legs teasingly, “I can quote Oscar Wilde as well.”

“I want the truth.”

“Oscar Wilde said something about the truth once…”

“ _Moriarty_.”

Jim’s gaze snapped up, eyes burning, “I’m not one of your little friends. I’m not going to hold your hand and help you through this. You figure it out.”

Sherlock sneered a little. He wanted to turn and storm off, but he didn’t. He was intrigued. He looked down between Jim’s thighs. His name. His dead, rotting flowers, leftover from when people had still been visiting his grave. From when they’d thought he was buried here.

“It must be depressing, knowing your grave will never get this much attention.” Sherlock said offhandedly, more focused on what he was missing.

“Won’t it?” Jim wiggled his hips playfully, “I’m the Napoleon of Crime, that has to count for something… Oh poor Sherly-locks. It’s right under your nose.”

Sherlock’s attention was drawn by the way Jim was sitting, mind racing to think outside the box. To analyze _him_. Black eyes, hazy. Stubble. That goddamn grin, he knew something Sherlock didn’t. He was here to meet Sherlock, with no hostages or threats, outside of the game.

“You. It’s you.”

Jim’s smile grew.

“You came back… To see me…”

The smile faded a little, becoming hesitant.

“You missed me.”

And now it was sad. Jim’s eyes looked tired, “Oh Sherlock…”

Sherlock blinked, then furrowed his brow, “Am I wrong?”

“Wrong about missing you? No, of course not.” Jim gave him a fond look, “I always enjoy our time together.”

“Then what is it?” Sherlock demanded.

“You’re such a lost little lamb.” Jim shook his head, staring at the ground in front of them with dead eyes, “Wishful thinking is going to be the end of you.”

“Why aren’t you threatening me?” Sherlock stepped closer to get Jim to look back at him.

“I’m not here for a game, Sherlock. I just want you to understand. I want you to let go of your delusions. You’re not as unaffected as you think.”

Jim reached out to catch Sherlock’s scarf in his hand. The weight of his grip was so solid and steady, it grounded Sherlock in the moment. He found himself leaning in slightly from the force of it.

“What would I have been affected by?” His words were measured.

“Me.” Jim bit his bottom lip between his teeth, glancing at Sherlock’s lips, “You’re all torn up over me.”

Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat and he narrowed his eyes, searching for a trick, but Jim looked serious. He looked serious and expectant and on the verge of pulling away.

“Over-“ Before Sherlock could change his mind, before Jim could finish, Sherlock leaned in to kiss him, smashing their lips together roughly. It nearly knocked Jim backwards off the headstone and he instinctively yanked at Sherlock’s scarf to keep from falling, making Sherlock gasp and pull back. Jim grabbed and squeezed Sherlock’s arm with his free hand for balance, blinking up at him in shock, and Sherlock smiled sheepishly.

“Come home with me.”

“Sherlock…” Jim sounded like he wanted to refuse, but Sherlock looked so boyish and innocent, and he was weak to pleasing him. He nodded and Sherlock straightened up, helping him stand and leading him away from the grave.

The walk home passed in a blur. Sherlock just remembered stumbling up the stairs in a tangle of limbs, Jim groping his arse and purring in his ear about how cute he was when he got eager, and dragging the smaller man’s body into his bedroom, dumping him on his bed. He crawled up over Jim, cupping his firm jaw to hold him in place as he kissed him, his thumb dragging back and forth over his stubble for that lovely tactile response.

Jim gasped and sighed, stretching beneath Sherlock like a cat and writhing against his hips. He loved being pinned, he loved being kissed so desperately, and he adored that it was Sherlock. Finally.

“If you keep moving like that, this won’t last long.” Sherlock threatened, pulling back to look at Jim.

“I don’t mind. I’m not going anywhere.”

It made Sherlock’s chest ache affectionately. He went back to Jim’s mouth, rutting in time with his squirming and trying to muffle his whines with his lips. Jim’s hands came up to grip his arse again and Sherlock shuddered with want.

“Next time, I want you to undress me.” Jim whimpered, head rolling back against the pillows, his Adam’s apple bobbing, “I want you to undress me and kiss every inch of me and suck the insides of my thighs and then take my cock in your mouth… I’ll grip your hair and hold your head down and fuck those soft lips of yours...”

Sherlock was flushed and sweaty under his clothes and he cried out a little at the words, head spinning. He wanted it so badly but not now, he wouldn’t last. There was a smear of something on Jim’s lips. Lipstick? Had he been kissing someone else? Sherlock pressed back in, tongue swiping over Jim’s, tasting the inside of his mouth. Like gunpowder and ash and, no, not lipstick, blood. He was horrible, of course he would taste horrible, but Sherlock didn’t mind. He loved it.

Jim began to thrust harder as he got closer, his gray eyes rolling back in his head. He was groaning, “God, I’m going to come… I’m going to come, Sherlock… I’m bleeding… My head… I’m-!” Jim’s back arched and he stiffened, mouth open in a soundless cry.

Sherlock took it as a sign and thrusted wildly too, quickly driving himself over the edge. He held Jim close, pressing his face into his shoulder and spasming as he spilled into his trousers. He could barely breathe. He lay still for a few moments, then he rolled off of Jim to avoid crushing him with his weight, flopping onto his back a safe distance away. He didn’t want to crowd him.

Jim moved closer, bumping his shoulder into Sherlock’s and giving him a crooked grin. Sherlock laced his dirt-caked fingers through Jim’s, a sense of belonging rolling through him. They fit together so perfectly.

He was getting that same sense again, from the cemetery. That he was in the company of someone who was long gone and forgotten. One day he’d be just like Jim. One day soon.

“Do you get it now?” Jim whispered, “Are you done lying?”

“I believe so… I know what happened to you.”

“And?”

“I know where I belong.”

Jim smiled blissfully, clouded eyes closing.

Sherlock smiled too, “Liberty in death.”

“Hmm?”

“Sorry, just something I heard once.”

“Everything fades. Only this is eternal.”

“I understand.”

“Good boy. I knew you would.”


End file.
